


the devil's right hand

by mortarsmayfall



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, Original Work
Genre: AU: Turtle Creek, Blow Jobs, CANNOT STRESS ENOUGH that this is meta fic of a tv show actor au, Face-Fucking, Gun Kink, IT AU, M/M, Shoe Kink, idk how else to tag it, meta fic of an au of where richie and eddie play the two guys in this story, mild humilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23108734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortarsmayfall/pseuds/mortarsmayfall
Summary: Miles doesn't know how to command a presence. Vincent helps.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 126





	the devil's right hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saintsrow2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsrow2/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Turtle Creek](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/566371) by @turtlecreek_tv. 



> some notes for clarity's sake: this fic is tagged eddie/richie because it is based on a twitter AU where richie and eddie are castmates in a netflix drama, but this is fic written for their fictional characters (the concept of tagging something this meta is making my head hurt so apologies). miles richter and vincent knight are portrayed by eddie kaspbrak and richie tozier, respectively.
> 
> turtle creek belongs to rants (@rorschachisgay) and can be read [here.](https://twitter.com/turtlecreek_tv/status/1230545314525872132?s=20)

Miles Richter looked down the sight of the gun. It was a common, cheap piece of equipment; a Glock model. The serial number was unimportant. This was just one of countless off-the-grid handguns procured and distributed by no-name weapons mules like Vincent, and thanks to the latter it was now Miles’ problem. 

“You’re insane.”

“If you think _this_ is insane you have a lot to learn about this place, Doc.”

The barrel was pressed to Vincent’s forehead. Vincent wrapped his fist around it and tugged, pushing it snug against the crease between his eyebrows. He was smiling, and Miles didn’t like it. When Vincent smiled like this in the dark, lit only by the battered headlights of the old pickup, it made Miles think of a coyote. Just some odd, mangy overgrown desert dog, walking on two hind legs, body lined with lean muscle.

Miles hesitated. Then dropped his arm, the pistol limp and toothless in his hand. He turned away from Vincent, pulling his long coat tighter against the desert chill running up along his spine. 

“This isn’t necessary, Vincent, I’m not...not like—“

“Me?” Vincent asked, stepping up, rapidly closing the space Miles was trying to create with his long legs. He didn’t even wear a jacket in this weather; his weapon harness was tight over his shoulders and chest. Bastard. “Yeah, that’s kind of the problem. I can’t be your dog every time shit goes sideways. You need to stand on your own. Make people take you seriously.”

“People take me seriously,” Miles said, snappish.

“Sure, Doc.”

With his mouth tightening into a thin white line, Miles fiddled the weapon between his hands. It was sleek, heavy, made of metal and tough plastic. Even in the heat of his hands it felt cold.Vincent sighed and kicked at a bit of desert scrub, his steel-toed boots crunching dirt and sand. Somewhere in the freeze-black distance an owl hooted, tucked safely into a hollow cactus for the night. The cold air was heavy, doubly so with Vincent’s considered silence.

“Shit’s different out here,” Vincent said, finally, leaning up against the hood of the truck. “Rules of engagement are different. This isn’t _New York.”_

“New York City isn’t exactly known for its low crime rate.”

“Lower’n it’s been in years. And let’s not pretend you weren’t living in some suburb out on Staten Island.”

“Manhattan,” Miles corrected, more than a little tetchy.

“Oh I’m _sorry,_ Your Honor,” Vincent drawled, offering Miles an overblown curtsy. “High rise in the city. I’m sure you were really slumming it.”

“Don’t fucking start.” Miles could feel his jaw tensing, any pretense of a joke dropping out of his tone. Vincent sat up, alert. It startled Miles how easily his body can draw taut, hone in on the chinks in Miles’ armor, where to poke a sore nerve. Miles was more nerves than armor these days. Or maybe that’s just how being around Vincent made him feel.

“No, no, I’ll stop, promise,” Vincent said, voice saccharine, hands up in an aw-shucks-you-got-me sort of gesture. “It’s just, in a town like this...who’s gonna toe the line when the prodigal son of the Willmott family is such a _pussy?”_

Shot, chaser. The gun was warm in Miles’ hand. He turned to face Vincent, watching him from his place on the truck, coiled and ready to strike. His glasses glittered in the dark like snake eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

The way Vincent moved was fucking maddening, so cool and languid, lazing off the pickup like this was his world and Miles was just living in it. He didn’t understand how a man as big as Vincent can move with such grace, how a force so destructive can slither like a constrictor, poised to wrap around Miles’ throat and just squeeze. 

Maybe he hated it so much because of how much he wanted it. 

Vincent’s boots had heavy soles but they were awfully quiet as he walked, so used to the weight of them that he just _swans,_ quick and light on his feet. The same thick heels Miles saw Vincent use to crush a man’s nose into his fucking face during that interrogation just the last week. He thought about the sound of the heel connecting with the cartilage every night since, the spatter of blood, the spark of _glee_ in Vincent’s eyes as Miles let him do it. As Miles _watched_ him do it.

Vincent was not a good man. Miles, on the other hand, was starting to doubt whether _he_ was either. 

“I’ll repeat myself,” Vincent said, tone disarming but Miles recognized it. It’s the dangle of light before the angler’s mouth, something sweet to lure before the snap. “No self-respecting two-bit wannabe mobster prick in this town is gonna be afraid of you, Miles. Look at you — you’re so fucking _weak._ You’ve been weak your whole fucking life. Just happy to fall in line, do what you’re told. Make your money and live in your safe little high-rise.” 

Vincent’s footsteps were picking up; he closed in on Miles with the certainty of a tornado approaching, ready to tear up roots, to shatter his windows, to pick him up and hurl him away. Miles didn’t even realize it, but he corrected his stance a little wider, his slick black dress shoes biting into the earth. 

“People like me die every _fucking_ day while cowards like you get to live. We live and we die doing the work your sister doesn’t like thinking about. Doing the work _you_ don’t like thinking about.” His voice went from sugar coated to venomous, spiky with barbs, intended to harm. And it was working; Miles’ heart hurt with the implication even as the rational part of him knew this was what Vincent _does:_ that he _acts,_ he always does, he lies and cheats and charms and wheedles the reactions he wants, and he’s so _very_ good at it. 

“Fucking don’t say that, Vince,” Miles said, feeling his own temper flare, skipping over Vincent dying, Vincent dying, Vincent _dying_ like a broken record. “Shut up. Don’t talk like that.”

He remembered too well the night they first fell into bed together, rain-soaked and gasping. Vincent smelled like cigarettes and gun oil and fell asleep stroking the tattoo of a turtle over Miles’ heart. 

“Why? Because I’m right?” Vincent challenges. “Face it, Doc; you _need_ me because you’re _scared._ Like Eleanor. And if you don’t get your fucking shit together she’s gonna have her pigs put you down like a dog, just like dear old Dad—“

 _“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”_ The ferocity of the scream that tore out of Miles’ own chest startled him. It was like he was watching himself in a movie; the gun in his hand was once again in play, hot like Hell itself had touched it; distantly all Miles could think of was the silly old country song: _Mama said the pistol was the Devil’s right hand._

He hadn’t meant to do it. But Vincent was so committed to making him _hurt,_ to _provoke_ him, that Miles had wedged the muzzle of the pistol between Vincent’s teeth, forced into his mouth until it was knocking the back of Vincent’s throat and leaving him half-gagging. White-hot fear tore through Miles before he remembered _the safety’s on, Vince made me turn the safety on_ and so he was left standing there, panting like he’d just run a marathon, with a fucking .9mm buried in someone’s throat. 

Vincent’s eyes were huge, black in the bleak light, ringed with blue, the whites almost cartoonish around them with alarm. His throat worked to not gag on the intrusion. He swallowed hard and the motion made Miles think he was observing something obscene. Miles shifted himself in his pants uncomfortably. He withdrew the gun, careful not to hurt Vincent’s teeth. The barrel returned glossy with spit, a thin thread of saliva tethering it to Vincent’s wet mouth. There was a glazed, unreadable expression on Vincent’s face. 

“Fuck.” Miles swore, backing off and pressing his hands to his head, the hilt of the gun digging into his scalp. His ears were ringing. Vincent swayed unsteadily, still glassy-eyed. “Fuck. Jesus, Vince, I’m sorry.”

“S’alright,” Vincent said, and sure it was pitch-black out but Miles would have to be an idiot to not recognize the way Vincent was pressing the heel of his hand to the join of his thighs, the way his fingers flexed, restless. _What have I done?_ Miles wondered. _What the fuck is wrong with us?_ “Though the last guy who did that wasn’t also fucking me.”

Yeah, there was definitely something wrong with him, if the way his dick just twitched in his pants was anything to go off of. 

“Christ on a cross, Vincent.” Maybe if he just willed it away the heartbeat between his legs would subside. Though he wasn’t feeling very optimistic.

“No, really, go on, Doc,” Vincent said. Miles looked at him like he was insane, dropping his hands from his head back to his sides. “Really, c’mon. You had something good going there. Let’s roleplay. What’re you gonna do with that big bad gun, Miles?”

They stared at each other. The light was too low at this distance for Miles to guess at the look in his eyes, hidden behind those thick glittering plastic frames, but Vincent’s facade was starting to crack. There was something...desperate in his tone, something hungry that he wasn’t going to cop to easily. He wanted Miles to play along.

And really, what was the harm in that?

Miles inhaled. Held for three seconds. Exhaled. Raised the gun back to Vincent, finger resting behind the trigger, left hand holding his right steady. Trigger discipline had been lesson one. He still remembered the hot line of Vincent’s body against his back, correcting his posture, breath condensing warm on the nape of his neck. Under his jacket, the hair on Miles’ arms stood on end, goosefleshed with anticipation.

“You’re gonna keep my father’s name out of your mouth.”

Vincent grinned. His teeth were white, sharp. He was pleased. “Yeah? Or else what?”

Moving this time was simple, thoughtless. Miles’ tidy dress shoes crunched through the dirt and dust, half-charging toward Vincent, gun held ready. He shoved the barrel past Vincent’s grinning mouth, past his sharp tongue, back down his throat, and with his free arm he hooked a hand up underneath Vincent’s armpit (ample opportunity to gather a handful of the fat and muscle around Vincent’s shoulder, the give making Miles’ mouth water) and force him, in one fluid motion, down on one knee. He was shorter than Miles now, forced to regard him with a craned neck, and the line of Vincent’s throat bobbing made Miles hot even with the desert wind whipping at him. He pressed his mouth to the join of Vincent’s jaw and his earlobe, appreciating the way their stubbled cheeks rasped against each other, and breathed, letting his hot breath bead moisture onto the tender skin.

“Or else,” Miles murmured, deathly quiet, “I’ll pull the trigger right now and let your blood and bone and brains shine my fucking oxfords.”

Of course Vincent couldn’t respond; he didn’t need to. The fucking _moan_ gave him away completely. Miles was so close to him he could practically taste it rattling his tongue. Fucking hell he wanted to get off _so_ badly; it was useless pretending otherwise or ignoring it. But maybe he could work it to both of their advantage.

“Jesus, are you _hard?”_ Miles sneered, pulling away. Vincent followed by instinct, leaning toward him like a flower to sunlight, his eyes hooded by lust. Miles jerked Vincent back by the gun, a smile playing across his lips. “Ah-ah. On your knees.”

Vincent obeyed, wobbling a little to place his other knee down, throat working around the barrel still in his mouth. Miles’ arm that held the gun trembled minutely; he bit his lip. What he wouldn’t give to throw the gun away, rip open his trousers, bury his cock down in Vincent’s willing, wet mouth. But he could do that some other time; now it’s about playing the part, making Vincent happy. He always wanted to make Vincent happy.

With his free hand Miles caressed Vincent’s cheek, enjoying the scrape of stubble against the pads of his fingers, ran his hand indulgently through the hair that curled behind his ear. Vincent’s eyes slipped half-closed, hazy. He looked at Miles, and it felt like a fist clenched around his heart, squeezing with fondness for him. But he couldn’t let the charade slip, not just yet.

“I’ll cut you a deal,” Miles said, his tone still low and dangerous, shot through with a thread of amusement. “You clean my gun, and if you do a good enough job _maybe_ I’ll let you get off. Agreed?”

Vincent made no sound, merely shook his head slowly, heavily. He slid one hand over Miles’ which gripped the handle of the gun, squared-off fingers rubbing over Miles’ longer, bonier ones. Spread his knees wide, so Miles could see the weight of his cock trapped against his pants, the thigh holster which held a combat knife. Miles licked his lips, his mouth dry. Vincent watched him as he slid down the barrel of the gun, letting it deep in his throat. He swallowed once, hard, just to show Miles the movement of his throat around the intrusion.

Miles exhaled, shakily. _Jesus fucking Christ._ “Good boy. Keep going.”

Vincent moaned again, hips twitching, and Miles had to grit his teeth to keep from panting. He wanted to feel the shudder and vibration of Vincent’s voice around his dick. Instead he settled for tightening his grip, tugging the dry, damaged curls of Vincent’s hair. He neglected it far too much for Miles’ tastes. His hair was lovely.

Vincent drew back, choking slightly, his lips red and shiny over the barrel as he popped off it. There was another string of spit, and he didn’t bother to lick it away; just turned his head and licked a wet stripe over the side of the gun, all the way up to the second knuckle of Miles’ finger where it curled behind the trigger, back down again, tonguing over the muzzle like it was the leaking slit of a cock. The danger of what they were doing didn’t escape Miles; there was a fearful tickle at the back of his brain at the idea of the gun going off, but he was far too interested in the workings of Vincent’s tongue over the plastic and metal to want to stop. 

“You’re good at this,” Miles breathed, his composure slipping a little as Vincent surged up over the gun again, driving it deep in his throat and moaning, loud, as if for Miles’ sake. As if he was putting on a show for him. His cock was thick and heavy in his pants, filled out and erect, and with each jerk of his mouth and throat over the barrel of the gun his hips rutted against air. God, he was fucking perfect. Miles petted his hair, feeling his gut tighten at the way Vincent looked at him. “Fuck. Maybe I should keep you.”

Vincent let out a low hum of assent at this, his hand tightening over Miles’. His other hand slid over Miles’ thigh, around to grip at his ass underneath his overcoat, and Miles let him, pumping the gun forward against Vincent’s eager mouth, fucking his throat with it. He wanted to make Vincent come; he lifted his shoe curiously and pressed the sole against Vincent’s hard cock, grinding his weight down. Miles got a _very_ enthusiastic sound out of this, desperate and punched-out low in Vincent’s chest. He pushed harder. He liked seeing Vincent squirm.

“So _that’s_ what you like,” Miles said. “Rutting against my shoe like a dog. Look at you.”

By the sound of it, Vincent wasn’t going to last much longer. His ministrations were getting sloppy; his eyes were glazed and hazy, dropped into some kind of bliss Miles could only imagine. When Miles pulled his hair his whole body jerked, the long line of his spine momentarily straightened; he kneaded at the meat of Miles’ ass like it was the only thing in the world that could bring him any comfort. Miles let Vincent rub off wildly at the heel of his shoe, ground down hard, moved his foot to a rhythm to match Vincent sucking off and licking at the muzzle of the gun.

“You’re getting desperate. Tell me how much you wanna come.”

He took mercy on Vincent then, withdrawing the gun completely, twirling a loop of Vincent’s hair around his finger. When he slid his palm under Vincent’s jaw he leaned into it like a favorite pet to its master’s hand.

“‘M so close, Miles, please—”

“Ah-ah,” Miles said, taking away his hand, enjoying how Vincent shuddered at the lack of touch. “Full title, please.”

Vincent stared at him, uncomprehending. His eyes were huge, black with blue slivered rings. Even in the dim light Miles could see the high flush on his cheeks. Miles waited patiently, watching him.

“Doctor Richter,” Vincent said finally, slowly, rolling the name around like a marble on his tongue. Miles found he liked when Vincent called him that. He liked it quite a lot. “Doctor Richter, I wanna come. Please.” He licked his lips again, swallowed hard.

_“Please.”_

Jesus.

“Yeah,” Miles said, his mouth dry. “Yeah, okay, baby, come for me.”

It felt strange to see Vincent like this: stripped down and desperate, his cock making a wet patch in his pants. His body so big and broad, threaded with muscle and sinew and soft fat and scar tissue, folded into submission. A sob escaped his lips as he melted fully against Miles, who let him fuck against his shoe, a low groan emitting from deep in his chest as the needy movement of his hips picked up, as Miles ground the sole against his neglected cock. It didn’t take long; a couple more jerks and Vincent was fully up on his knees as far as Miles would let him, burying his face into Miles’ thigh as his body went tense and rigid with his orgasm. His pants grew wet and sticky with it; god, Miles had just made him come in his pants like some kind of teenager.

“God, Doc, fuck _me.”_

Miles was so hard he felt like he was going to cry. Fuck gentleness; he needed to come right fucking now. Vincent’s body was still trembling with aftershocks and his fingers were so tight in the meat of Miles’ ass he was surely going to leave bruises. Miles groped at Vincent’s hair, his face, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Vince. Vince, baby, let me fuck your face? I need you. So bad. Please.”

Vincent nodded, wild-eyed and exhausted but wanting. “Yeah. Do it.”

Miles fumbled for his belt, the button of his pants. He tore down his waistband and his underwear just as much as was necessary to pull his cock out, the head flushed red and leaking. Vincent’s eyes flicked from Miles to his cock, hungry. He wrapped his arms around Miles’ thighs, urging him closer, slackening his mouth for him. Like he was saying use me.

He didn’t need any more encouragement. Miles stroked his dick deep into Vincent’s throat and Vincent choked, grateful. He pulled back and felt the drag of Vincent’s teeth and tongue over it and moaned. His mouth was so hot, the tight heat of it pulling him in. Miles felt like the luckiest man on earth. He _was_ the luckiest man on earth.

“God, Vince, your fucking mouth.” Hot and wet and so fucking perfect. He didn’t even need Vincent to suck him; Miles started to fuck his mouth hard and desperate, and Vince loved it, eyes rolling back in his head, hanging on for dear life as Miles used him up. They’d fuck proper later on, but Miles just needed an outlet for now, riled up and electric, the need in Vincent’s eyes stampeding him closer to finishing. “You’re so fucking good. You’re perfect for me.”

Vincent closed his eyes and moaned; Miles felt so close he was going to die. He wrapped his hands around the back of Vincent’s head and pushed him down onto his cock; Vincent liked that a _lot,_ choking and drooling on Miles’ dick, the sound of his mouth fucking obscene. 

“I’m gonna — fuck, can I come down your throat? I really — really wanna do that.”

He was rewarded with a long, happy noise. Vincent gripped onto his ass and pulled _hard,_ like, _yeah, fucking do it to me,_ and that was all the encouragement Miles needed, driving down deep into Vincent’s throat and coming, gasping at the feeling of Vincent swallowing around him, clawing at Vincent’s hair, the hard line of his shoulders as his knees started to turn jelly and Vincent propped him up.

“Fffffffuck _yes,”_ Miles groaned, his cock slipping out of Vincent’s mouth. He slumped into Vincent’s lap, dick spent and sated, buried his nose into Vincent’s sweaty neck. He liked the way Vincent smelled when he was sweaty. Miles put his arms around Vincent’s broad shoulders and just let himself be held.

“You really fucking liked that.” He could hear the smile in Vincent’s voice and snorted.

“Glass houses, Mr. I-Get-Off-On-Humping-Legs-Like-A-Dog.”

“Yeah, okay,” Vincent said. “Let me up, Doc, my knees are killing me.”

Miles did, getting to his feet and tucking his soft cock back into his trousers. He offered a hand up, which Vincent gladly took, dusting himself off.

“Nothing a hot bath can’t fix.”

“I’m only committing to that if you come keep me company.”

Miles stood for a moment, as if considering. As if the thought of Vincent naked and soapy, his body roped with scares to lick, wasn’t the first thing to do him in.

“Sure,” Miles said, smiling. “As long as you let me play with your tits.”

“Again with the tits! I swear, Richter, I’m starting to think you have a fetish. They’re _pectorals.”_

“Tomayto, tomahto.”

“Jesus you drive a hard bargain. It’s a deal.”

Miles couldn’t help but laugh at that. He knelt to retrieve the gun while Vincent idly complained about having creamed his fucking pants and opened the driver’s side of the pickup, waiting for Miles to climb in before gunning the engine. 

The hotel room wasn’t far from here. Vincent grinned at Miles, his smile wolfish, and Miles punched his shoulder good-naturedly. They took their time going back home, Vincent’s hand on Miles’ thigh the whole way.

**Author's Note:**

> i really have no excuse for whatever this is other than i wrote this for rants and as long as he enjoys it then i did my job well. i love you baby here's nearly 4k words of absolute filth.
> 
> title comes from "the devil's right hand," originally recorded by steve earle, but my personal favorite version is [johnny cash's.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YDVCMHX9r0k)


End file.
